The Golden Scar
The ink was still wet. It stained the tip of the quill. It stained the edge of the paper. It stained the mind of Arthur Penhaligon. He sat in the study. The room was cold. The fire had died hours ago. Outside, the snow fell. It fell without sound. It fell without end. Arthur was a scholar. He studied the old texts. The ones from before the Fall. The ones that spoke of a time when people could...
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